


liminal

by marrieddorks



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Light Angst, M/M, Schmoop, So much schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-29 02:58:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20789468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marrieddorks/pseuds/marrieddorks
Summary: curtain rods, boxer briefs, family favorite recipes, The Princess Bride, and weighted worries all find a place at 2 a.m.ora simple story of domesticity and being there to bake a cake at the oddest of hours.





	liminal

**Author's Note:**

> hi hi hi, this is very indulgent and, frankly, a little bit pointless. i've got quite a thing for moments of intimacy that established couples have with one another and something like this - the inherent knowledge of what's occurring, the comforability in being together at these odd hours, etc. - really ticks off all those boxes for me. i apologize for the lack of plot. it's underlying, i'm sure, but my brain didn't want to do anything with it. 
> 
> you've all been so absurdly kind to me on the two fics i've posted in this fandom and i wish there was a proper way to thank you. i've never felt so accepted in fandom in my life and it truly means the world to me. thank you from the bottom of my heart. 
> 
> this is nothing but a few thousand words of very pointless and plotless fluff <3
> 
> not beta'd by anyone. all mistakes are my own.

The first crash didn’t wake Damen up, but the second one had him jolting like he’d been electrocuted. He jolted so violently that he sent his pillow tumbling over the side of the bed. That hardly mattered at this moment, however, especially not when his hand that had instinctively reached out for the warm body always next to his own felt only cold sheets and tangled blankets.

He rubbed at his eyes in an attempt to adjust to the darkness when the third crash, this one the loudest, echoed eerily throughout the house. Adrenaline pushed him to stand and caution kept him from calling out for Laurent even though desperation told him to.

Silently hoping his bare feet would be as quiet as possible on the hardwood floor, Damen tiptoed around the perimeter of the bedroom, searching for something that could constitute as a weapon. When his fingers encircled something metal and cylindrical, he simply went with it and continued his trek until he was at the door.

The hallway light wasn’t on, but the kitchen light was. Damen could see shadows dancing along the dining room walls. Outside the bedroom, it was easier to hear the other sounds, the quieter ones, that had accompanied the crashes. There was a shuffling sound interspersed with the opening and closing of cabinet doors and drawers. Damen edged closer and closer until he was at the corner where the hallway opened to the kitchen. He steeled himself, took several slow and deep breaths, counted to three, and jumped around the corner with his weapon wielded like a sword.

He screamed at the same time Laurent screamed. They drowned out the shattering of the bowl that had been in Laurent’s hands.

“What are you doing?” Damen yelled.

“What are _you_ doing trying to hit me with a curtain rod?” Laurent yelled back.

“I heard crashing,” Damen justified after a beat of silence. He lowered the curtain rod slowly.

“And you assumed it was an intruder as opposed to the other person that lives in the house?” Laurent asked in the same tone as his first question.

“You could have been kidnapped,” Damen said. Laurent rolled his eyes and bent down to start extracting the largest pieces of broken glass from the pile on the floor. Damen bent down with the intention to join him. “You could have been held hostage,” he tried again.

“My knight in shining armor.”

Laurent was already standing and moving to the trashcan to dump the shards into. After that, he disappeared only for a moment as he went to fish out the broom from their supply closet. His momentary absence gave Damen time to look around.

The countertops looked like a war zone. Mixing bowls and spices and a variety of pans littered the space that was dusted in a light coating of loose flour. The refrigerator door was cracked open the tiniest bit from the carton of eggs. Cupcake liners appeared to have exploded in a mess of white and yellow paper all from where they stored the handheld mixer. When Laurent came back, still focused on cleaning up the glass, it gave Damen time to look at him as well.

It appeared as though Laurent was wearing Damen’s old Akielon Lions practice jersey and nothing more. Knowing Laurent as well as he did, Damen knew that underneath that was most definitely Laurent’s favorite pair of shorts that he had owned since being fifteen. Though the expanse of his legs was distracting, Damen was more drawn to the frazzled look behind his eyes and the windswept appearance of his blond hair. He must have been running his hands through it.

“I’m aware that I may have jumped to some drastic conclusions,” Damen started, and Laurent threw him a look, “but I have to ask: what are you doing?”

“Baking a cake,” Laurent answered. The rhythmic _swish swish swish_ of the broom against the floor matched the steady rate of Damen’s heart.

“It’s two in the morning.”

“I know that.”

After sweeping the tinier bits of glass and clinging dirt into a neat pile, Laurent gathered it all in their tiny handheld dustpan before tossing it in the trashcan with the larger shards of the once-bowl. Then, as though nothing had happened, he went back to baking his cake.

He wasn’t very far in the process, Damen observed. A good handful of the ingredients were out already, but he hadn’t yet preheated the oven, let alone actually started to mix the batter together or grease the cake pans.

There were plenty of questions swirling in Damen’s mind as he watched Laurent level off the first cup of cake flour and empty it into their largest mixing bowl. But one look at the tense lines of Laurent’s shoulders had him postponing them...for right now, anyway. Instead, he walked over to the counter and leaned a hip against it

“What kind of cake are you making?” he asked. His voice was quieter than it had been since he awoke.

“Red velvet,” Laurent said.

_Ah,_ Damen thought to himself, _it was one of those nights._

“Can I help?” Damen asked in the same quiet voice and he kept his gaze steadily on Laurent’s profile. He watched as Laurent’s eyes flicked toward him for the briefest of seconds before turning their focus back to leveling off the third, and final, cup of flour.

“Sure,” Laurent said. “You can turn the oven to three-fifty and cut this stick of butter into cubes.”

Damen began to do as he was bid. The buttons on the oven beeped a high-pitched sound as he pressed them to the needed setting. There was a perfectly ready stick of butter at the top of the door in the refrigerator and he grabbed it alongside a cutting board to get to work. They worked in silence for a few minutes. Laurent was measuring out the sugar, cocoa powder, and baking soda and Damen’s knife was hitting the cutting board mutedly.

Without a word, Laurent started to toss some of the cubes of butter into the dry ingredients. The loud whirring of the handheld mixer rang out loudly as he beat everything together until it represented a bowl of coarse crumbs. Damen waited until Laurent was mixing the wet ingredients together to speak again.

“You’re probably freezing, Laurent,” Damen said. “You’re always cold in the morning.”

“Is it technically considered morning if the sun isn’t due for another four hours?” Laurent asked rhetorically. “I hadn’t noticed the cold. This must be what it’s like for you.” The look he threw, both appraising and judgemental at once, at Damen’s boxer-brief clad body was impossible to miss.

Damen’s grin was deep as he responded, “I’ve always told you, there’s something freeing about walking around your own pace in as little as possible.”

“Yes, well, you’re lucky we’re only baking something as opposed to frying it.”

The handheld mixer was back on and this time Damen watched as the tan colored mix quickly turned a deep red as the wet ingredients were poured into the dry ones. Laurent mixed it until it was free of any clumped pieces and he eased the machine setting down until the beaters came to a complete stop. Silently, Laurent offered Damen one batter-dripping beater.

Moving to the side so Laurent could momentarily claim the counter space all to himself once more, Damen watched him while curling his tongue around the thin rods to lick at all the red. It was hypnotic in a methodical way, watching Laurent scrape down the sides of the bowl with the silicone spatula before carefully pouring half of the batter into one of the greased and floured pans. When both pans were filled halfway, Laurent took them to the oven and placed them on the first rack. They were layered to fit both on the same level; one toward the back left corner and the other at the upper right one.

Damen was going to start the conversation again. He had a sentence all thought up and everything, but when Laurent turned around and his face transformed from its solemn lines into that soft and private smile, Damen forgot his words. They completely melted away when Laurent walked up to him, toe to toe, and gently thumbed away the red clinging to the corner of Damen’s mouth.

“How is it you always do this?” Laurent asked him.

“Hey, I’ll have you know that those beaters are almost impossible to do anything with gracefully. I think they were invented with the sole intention of making dessert-eager people look the tiniest bit unhinged.”

Laurent made a noncommittal hum, but he was still smiling and that made Damen feel better.

Cleaning up really wasn’t as difficult as it appeared it would be. Damen set forth putting away everything that belonged in a cabinet or the refrigerator. Meanwhile, Laurent got to washing the mixing bowl for the batter, the mixing bowl that the wet ingredients had been in, the spatula, and the twin beaters which now both already appeared “clean” thanks to Damen.

When everything was delicately placed on the dish drying rack, Damen waited to see what Laurent would do next. He made no reaction when Laurent sank to the floor and stretched his long legs out.

“Are you going to join me?” Laurent asked him, patting at the empty space of floor next to him. Then he shifted his position ever so slightly, just so that when Damen sat it wouldn’t have to be against a cabinet with a bunch of knobs and handles.

The cakes still had twenty-two minutes and they would need to cool before they were ready for the cream cheese icing that had been sitting out to get to room temperature. Damen eased himself down next to Laurent.

“So,” Damen started, “red velvet, huh?”

“It’s one of those nights,” Laurent answered with Damen’s earlier thought. Damen’s shirt was even shorter on Laurent when he was sitting down. “I remember once, when I was eight, maybe nine, I woke up like you did tonight. I heard these sounds coming from the kitchen and I snuck down the staircase to find my mother and Auguste in the kitchen. Auguste was rambling about school and about our father’s unrealistic expectations for him and mother was baking him his favorite cake.”

Damen listened, but allowed his hand to dance across Laurent’s bare thigh until his fingers could curl around Laurent’s own fingers. Laurent squeezed his hand once.

“When mother got sick, I wanted to learn how to make the cake so Auguste could always have it when he was feeling down.” Laurent laughed a hollow sound. “I only got to make it once for him before….”

“I bet it meant everything to him,” Damen filled the silence with his sincerity.

“The cakes got stuck to the pans,” Laurent said. “I had sprayed them with cooking spray, but I hadn’t known that it would be better greased and floured. Auguste probably missed our mother more than ever with my shoddy excuse for baking.”

There was nothing to say to that. Damen wrapped his arm around Laurent’s shoulders and pulled him in tight instead. Laurent’s ear found the space above Damen’s heart.

“Is this about Nicaise?” Damen asked, but he already knew the answer was yes.

When the letter had arrived in their mailbox on Monday morning, Damen had known it would lead to something like this. It wasn’t everyday that you were subpoenaed to testify on behalf of your abusive uncle in a custody case for your cousin. Laurent nodded mutely against Damen’s shoulder.

“He’s going to end up in my uncle’s household with every material thing his tiny heart could ever desire, but the remainder of his innocence beaten away from him. Or he’s going to end up in a group home with little to nothing to his name until he eventually ages out of the system all alone. There’s no winning for him here and yet he’s going to testify that he wants to go with my uncle. And I can’t blame him. He doesn’t know.”

“You’re very sweet,” Damen said after a moment’s silence. “But sometimes I wish you would worry about yourself more than others.”

“Nicaise is all the family I have left,” Laurent said. The admission was raw.

“Oh, that’s not true. You’ve got me.”

He could feel Laurent’s mouth turn into a smile.

“And your multitude of crazy relatives?” Laurent asked, and Damen could hear that smile in his voice.

“Yes, and them. Especially my uncle. You know Uncle Mak thinks of you as the son he never had.”

Laurent didn’t move his head from Damen’s chest and Damen didn’t say another word until the oven began to beep. It took a moment for Laurent to react to the noise and stand, and Damen stayed sitting. He watched, a small and private smile of his own on his face, as Laurent opened the open door, checked the center of the cakes, and gently pulled them out with the white oven mitts. Then he came back.

“Would you call me an optimistic idiot if I told you that I believe everything is going to be okay?” Damen asked him.

“Nothing my uncle is near ever turns out okay,” Laurent said as opposed to answering.

“You turned out more than okay,” Damen said with an intensity betraying the odd atmosphere of being up at, now, three in the morning. He turned his body to face Laurent head on and didn’t allow the passion of his feelings to dim at the sight of Laurent’s open and taken aback facial expression. “It’s crazy to me that you don’t see what I see.”

“I think you’re a bit biased,” Laurent said. He was smiling again though.

Damen leaned forward and pressed their foreheads together. “You leave me breathless,” he whispered.

Kissing was the most natural thing then. It was soft yet unyielding, like the stillness of the night outside, and Damen smiled into it when he felt Laurent’s shuddering breath against his lips.

“We should definitely eat cake now if we’re planning on getting any sleep before sunrise,” Damen said, regaining his voice first.

“I long gave up on sleeping tonight,” Laurent admitted, but he was standing reaching for the softened cream cheese. “You should go try to get some rest though.” He was talking as he threw all the ingredients into one of the bowls, his voice as soft as it had been earlier. “Thank you for getting up for me. Thank you for talking. I’m sorry I took away your sleep.”

Damen’s arms hooked through Laurent’s own, ceasing his movements, as he wrapped his arms tightly around Laurent’s waist. Laurent immediately leaned back into the touch.

“You know you don’t have to thank me or apologize. Especially not for something like this. We’re a team, you and I. Isn’t that what you told me when I was waking you up at all hours of the night trying to deal with the situation with my brother?”

“I suppose,” Laurent didn’t sound convinced. “Though I can’t recall you doing anything as odd as waking up to bake a cake at an ungodly hour like this one.”

“No, but I did make you watch _The Princess Bride_ with me three times in a row in one night.”

“We should do that again,” Laurent said. His hands had snuck out of the trap of Damen’s arms and were stroking at the soft skin on the back of Damen’s hands instead.

“You did say you had given up on sleep for the night,” Damen trailed.

And that is how they somehow ended up on the sofa at almost four in the morning, eating too big of pieces of red velvet cake and watching as Princess Buttercup threw herself into the gorge after her beloved Westley.

“We should take a slice to Nicaise tomorrow,” Damen whispered minutes later as Westley was taken to the Pit of Despair. Laurent’s head was back on his shoulder and their feet were tangled on the foot rest of the sofa.

Laurent hummed sleepily and placed a barely-there kiss at the hollow of Damen’s throat.

“We should. We could even take him out for dinner afterward.”

“Dessert then dinner?” Damen smiled and placed his own barely-there kiss on Laurent’s temple.

“Dessert then dinner then dessert again,” Laurent yawned. “It’s the only way to do it.”

“As you wish.”

Laurent laughed.

At six, they both jolted awake to a crash as the curtain rod, placed against the hallway wall hours earlier, fell over in a clatter of metal. The only things chirping outside were still just the crickets. Damen tried to stretch out the crick in his neck. Laurent, meanwhile, seemed unaffected by the crash and immediately fell back into soft-breathing slumber. 

The first peek of the sun and the shifting of time made Damen grateful for many things. He thought of those things as he carried Laurent back to the comfort of their own bed. 

But mostly, he realized as he pulled the blankets over both of their bodies, he was grateful for red velvet cake at 2 A.M. 

Laurent, still asleep, seemed to agree. He made a quiet sound as he snuggled in closer. 

**Author's Note:**

> fun fact: i've never seen the princess bride but everyone talks about it so much that it seems like quite the fantasy classic. i can only assume damen would enjoy it. i'll have to watch it soon to determine that for myself.


End file.
